


Tomboy

by waxjism



Category: NSYNC
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-04-28
Updated: 2001-04-28
Packaged: 2017-10-06 09:15:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waxjism/pseuds/waxjism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>thanks to bronwyn for bunny, dale, nemoinis and rrrosa for beta.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Tomboy

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to bronwyn for bunny, dale, nemoinis and rrrosa for beta.

He feels stupid. There's no way he can avoid feeling stupid when he's tip-toeing through the dark house wearing red track pants with a matching bra top.

He doesn't feel stupid enough to stop, though. He put up a fight when they told him about the Spice Girls scene, of course, because, well, they all did. Except Chris, who thought it was fucking hilarious, and was jazzed as hell for days before, bouncing around and cracking Bearded Lady jokes at Joey. When they got dressed up, he helped Justin with the wig and gave him a wad of Kleenex for the bra. "For my pretty girl," he said and winked. Justin blushed. JC, already in his black dress, hid a small smile behind his hand. But then, JC is a freak.

That isn't something Justin wants to linger on, though, as he turns up the lights in the rehearsal room just one click. He doesn't want to see too much, and thank god for dimmer switches. It doesn't so much illuminate as accentuate the shadows in the corners, and when he turns to the mirror wall, the low light makes his skin glow and turns the bright red of the pants and top dark crimson.

Okay, this is weird. It's weird in all sorts of ways. He's not wearing the crow's nest of a wig they gave him, so he looks a lot more like a boy now; his face softened under the mop of raggedy dark hair, but now it's even more angular, he thinks, than usual, his nose looks odd, bigger, too big for his face. He doesn't look like a girl at all. His shoulders are already good and broad, and he's tall. He can see what he's going to look like as a man. But his waist curves in a little, and the pants give his narrow hips a bit of swell. Just enough.

He doesn't look at his face anymore, because his eyes fall in shadow and seem too dark and almost alien, and it's a boy's face, after all. Not ... right.

He leans his weight on one leg, slanting his hips, putting a hand on the jut of hipbone. He can't do this pose right - he looks like an awkward boy acting out, so he stops. He's self-conscious, suddenly, and can't get his body to obey, so he hums under his breath to find a groove, something deep and slow and sexy, and there it is. He can't sing without feeling it, without moving with it.

He's pretty, this boy-girl in the mirror with the too-short hair and the too-large eyes and the too-angular face and the long, smooth-skinned, smooth-muscled body. He's pretty and he moves with liquid grace, and the muscles bunch under the skin, and he touches, strokes smooth skin and smooth muscle where it's bare, between the top and the lining of the pants. His hand, his big boyhand with long fingers and a broad palm, feels good on his hot skin, and it looks good on the boy-girl in the mirror.

He shimmies, moves his shoulders, keeps his eyes on the hand on his stomach, and when he moves, the pants brush and slide over his naked skin. He's not wearing underwear. The top feels strange and tight in odd places; it pulls at his ribcage with elastic pressure. When he lifts his shoulder, the fabric rubs against his nipples, and that's also odd. He slides his hands up over his stomach, over the hidden ridges of his ribs and over the top. And more oddities, a bra but no breasts, just his own hard, flat chest, with the slight bulge of the pecs he's been working on for years. He cups them, and pecs are good, they feel good under his hands, under the fabric that isn't silk but should be. He's still singing.

He's forgotten to be self-conscious, and it's only a dim, muted warning somewhere in the back of his head that makes him look up before he lets his hand dip back down all the way past chest-ribs-stomach and over the border of red, slippery-silky fabric. And he freezes, with his fingertips light on the trickle of soft hair that runs in an arrow from his belly button. Someone is standing in the deep shadow by the doors in the mirror-room, where the pretty boy-girl has stopped dancing in horror.

It's Chris, just a shadow in baggy jeans and a formless, ghost-white teeshirt with a text Justin can't see but knows anyway - TAKE ME TO YOUR LEADER - and he can't see Chris' face, and the hair on the back of his neck stands right up and a shiver, a rash of goosebumps slither down his spine. He can feel Chris' eyes on his back like the touch of spiderwebs. He's not breathing.

Then Chris takes a step forward, and the soft light falls on his face, his strange, witchy face, and the suspended breath rushes out of Justin in a whoosh of relief, because Chris isn't laughing, isn't even smiling. He looks intent and concentrated. Justin has seen Chris looking at him like that before, but never for this long.

Justin looks away, looks back at himself, at one hand on his belly, the fingers hovering just above the lining, one still on his chest. At his face now, his wide eyes and red mouth. He sucks in a deep breath, and watches his eyes slide half-shut, feels the pull on his ribs, feels his chest expand under his hand, his abs tighten under his other hand. Moves his fingers, scrapes them over his nipple and closes his mouth around a hiss. He sways a little, hums again, softly, and rolls his hips. When he opens his eyes and look up again, Chris is standing right behind him. Close behind him; close enough that his breath fans cool against Justin's back.

Chris isn't meeting his eyes in the mirror. Chris is looking at his back. Justin has seen the dailies, and knows that the combination of low-riding pants and skimpy top makes his back look long and slim. He felt eyes on him all day, but never knew for sure who was looking.

Chris' eyes are hooded as he lifts his hand and touches, softly, softly, Justin's bare neck, and down, along his spine over the break of red, silky cloth, and further down to the small of his back and the lining of the pants.

Justin thinks he might have made a sound; he feels it in his mouth. His back feels thin-skinned, like a first-degree burn, only not painful, just ... like the nerves are closer to the surface in the wake of Chris' hand. No one's ever touched his back like that before, with something like reverence, gently, and at the same time so deliberately.

And Chris must have heard him, because his hand moves, strokes Justin's back again, and pushes, still gently. Justin takes a clumsy step forward and catches himself against the cool glass.

Chris is right behind him, his hand resting flat against Justin's back, and his face against Justin's neck now, and he says, very softly, "you're beautiful," and his mouth is hot and wet and Justin shivers.

"uh..." he says, but he's not sure what to say, not sure if he can say anything, because the shiver hasn't stopped, it's just travelling down his back and up again, and Chris' hand is hot, and Chris' mouth is hot, and Justin feels hot everywhere, and the pants aren't tight, or they weren't tight before, at least, just snug around his hips, but they're a lot more snug now, and Chris isn't talking, but his lips are moving and burning against Justin's neck, and his hand is slipping down Justin's back, trailing fire, and Justin thinks, I'm easy, I'm so easy, but it doesn't bother him because Chris' hand is cupping his ass, and he didn't know, he had no idea it could feel like that, because no one's touched him like that before, ever. Girls touch him with soft, hesitant hands, but Chris' hand is strong and possessive.

"pretty hot boy," Chris mumbles, and Justin pushes back against him a little, gets his face away from the glass so he can see him in the mirror, and his face is serious and dark and he doesn't look like the wacky, fun guy he is in sunlight.

And Chris' hand is still on his ass, sliding easily over the slippery fabric, and dips between his legs and Justin blushes hotly, suddenly, because he didn't just spread his legs and arch his back, did he?

But he did, and Chris says, "oh, you, boy," and Justin knows he can feel the absence of underwear, that he's feeling more than that. His back is arching even more, because Chris is rubbing the crack of his ass now, and his other hand is sneaking around his waist and burning the skin on his stomach, a clear handprint in fire-hot-pressure, fingers, thumb and palm, and it slides upward and it's better when Chris' hand is on him, better, way better, and the one hand on his ass and the other on his chest, and he just leans back against the glass, presses his flushed face against it and closes his eyes. It's cool and soothing.

Chris' fingers slip under his top, lifting the elastic and Justin throws his head back in surprise, because he's forgotten about his nipples there, been preoccupied with his back and his ass, but here they are again, under Chris' fingertips, a spike of pleasure that rushes through Justin's body, downwards, of course, cause that's the way all of it is going.

He knows, vaguely, that he's pushing his ass against Chris' hand, trying to get. more. something, and he's panting against the glass, his short breaths leaving condensing moisture on the slick surface, and he's sweating, suddenly, and his palms are slipping, and he was just hot before, but now he's damp and hot all over.

It occurs to him that he's making a mess in these pants that aren't really his, and that the wardrobe people are going to notice if there's a big stain in them, and he should probably either take them off or stop doing this, whatever it is he's doing, right now. But then Chris kisses his neck - licks his neck, oh, his neck and his shoulder. Then Chris takes his hand off his ass, and Justin can't stop a small, whimpered, "no--"

"I'll stop if you don't want this," Chris whispers, and Justin tries to twist his head to see Chris' face, but all he can see is a mess of black and white braids.

"wha--" he starts, but he's pushing his ass out, like a slut, he knows, but he really, really needs Chris to put his hand back. He tries to think, because Chris seems to want some sort of input, but it's hard to get past the wild, screaming need that makes his knees weak and his mouth dry. He knows what he must look like, braced against the glass wall with his legs spread and his back arched, and he wonders if this is what it's supposed to be like. "I--" he says. "I want--" but his brain seems full of grey smoke and orange flames, little bushfires here and there and not a coherent thought to be found. Chris leans closer again, and he pushes back and feels Chris' crotch against his ass, Chris cock against his ass, and everything screeches to a halt for two panic-shivery seconds before Chris rolls his hips and Justin realises that he just spread his legs even wider without actually remembering when or how he did it.

"Tell me--" Chris hisses in his ear, and Justin looks at himself in the mirror, at his red face and dark eyes and open mouth and gasps,

"yes! yes-- I want--" and Chris is grinding against him, and why didn't he know that it would feel like this? Shouldn't this be something he'd have figured out by this time? He feels ridiculously turned on, like he might come like this, from just this, and no one's even touched his cock yet.

And then Chris' hand slips inside his pants and over his ass, rude, blunt fingers, and he's not going to, he's not, he fucking is pushing inside, it feels raw and new and fucking good, and Justin bangs his forehead against the mirror and bites his lip and fights to keep his knees from buckling. So this is the firework thing everyone keeps talking about. Fireworks happen when you have a guy's fingers up your ass. They never mentioned this in sex. ed. Chris has never mentioned this before.

"you're-- oh, you like this--" Chris breathes in his ear, and his mouth again, on his neck, tongue, lips, teeth: short, sharp nip. "you really, really-- like this," and Justin gasps, and Chris is pushing him forward, flush against the mirror, and he reels and his hands scrabble over the glass. Chris squeezes his nipple hard once and drops his hand to his cock, and Justin yells in surprise and relief and simple, fucking gratitude and bucks and twists his hips against Chris hands, one and the other, one and the other, and he hears his palms squeak against the mirror surface, and he's pushing his face into it, too, so hard his teeth rattle against it, and one final twist, and Chris doesn't back off, just says, sharply, with a quick bite on Justin's jaw, "you want to, go on," and it's like he gives Justin's body permission and it hears, because he comes so hard his knees buckle, and then he's falling, robbed of Chris fingers and Chris' palm.

He's hot and damp and messy, and his body feels like it's made of Jell-O, shivery and weak, but it's a good shivery. He looks in the mirror again, and sees himself, boy-girl with a wet, trembling mouth and heavy-lidded eyes; and Chris, standing quietly, staring down at him. Chris looks both huge and tiny, like an optical illusion in that mirror world. But he's real, just Chris in his favourite jeans with the patch on the leg, and his weird hair that's twisted into a messy bun of black and white. Chris still isn't smiling, just looking at him. Waiting. Oh. Oh, Justin thinks suddenly. Waiting.

"I'm-- what. can I--" but he can't really ask when he doesn't know what he's asking. His hand reaches for Chris, for the first part he can reach, which is the loose hem of his teeshirt, and he pulls a little, pushes himself up against the mirror, and his bare skin cringes from the cold glass, and he shudders and leans against Chris.

"hey," Chris says, "don't, you don't have to--" but Justin suddenly wants to, wants before he knows what exactly. He reaches under Chris' shirt, strokes his stomach and likes it. Chris makes a small noise and puts his hand over Justin's. "oh, oh--"

"I want to," Justin says and his fingers are working on Chris' fly already, and he wants to, he wants. He's on his knees in front of Chris, with his back to the mirror, thank god, but he knows Chris can see his reflection, and his neck and back and ass and bare feet. He thinks he could almost get hard again just from thinking about Chris looking at him, but that feels somehow unimportant when he's double dog daring himself to use his mouth and his mouth has already got to work.

"oh, fuck," Chris says in a small voice, and he stays perfectly still while Justin takes too much and gags and pulls back and feels like a tool, gives up and does what the girls do, uses his hand, and he wonders why he thought it would be different for boys. His mouth isn't that much bigger. And then Chris swears again and sways, and there's a hand in Justin's hair, twisting fingers in his short curls, but no pressure until Chris cries out and yanks him off and up and comes all over his pretty, red top.

He's looking down at the stain with his mouth open when Chris joins him on the floor. "hey," Chris says.

"um, this wasn't--" Justin stutters, but Chris just pulls him closer, careless of the mess and kisses him. Justin puts his arms around Chris and kisses back. This is normal and familiar, kissing, although his mouth already feels like they've been making out for an hour when this is the first kiss.

Chris kisses him and hugs him and ruffles his hair, and says, "don't worry."

"But I took this from wardrobe," Justin says. He's starting to feel tired already, tired enough to just lie down here on the floor and sleep.

"That's what we have dry cleaning for," Chris says with a little grin. When he smiles, he looks more familiar again, and Justin feels like taking off his red girl clothes and being himself. "Come on, let's go to bed."

He feels light-headed when he gets up, but not enough to make him sway. He follows Chris out, but before he turns out the lights, he sneaks one last look at himself in the mirror. He still looks pretty.


End file.
